


from my lonely point of view

by bravest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>castiel starts to show up late at night as dean tries to sleep, and distracts him from his own thoughts by asking him questions, talking to him and sharing stories until dean drifts off.</p><p>dedicates this to the lovely zi, my destielspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from my lonely point of view

At first, Castiel wants to distract his friend from the dark thoughts that eat at the edge of his mind when he’s lying in the dark before sleep. At first, it is a mere distraction, and the questions he asks as he sits in the dark near Dean’s lying form on the bed reflect that; they’re simple and don’t require too much thinking. At first, it is tentative at best, but as Dean begins to play along Castiel grows confident and his questions begin to reflect that, too. At first, Dean deflects certain inquiries with jokes, the usual reference or macho pretend. Castiel remains silent and Dean feels eyes boring into him and curses, rolling over before grumbling the truth. Castiel thanks him for it, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. 

 Every night, it’s the same. The repetition itself is a big part of the comfort this quick formed habit provides. It is stability, routine, a break from the hectic run and go of his day to day life. A stable point of focus from which to draw strength. It is something Dean lacks, and it’s with barely hidden relief that he hears the fluttering announcing Castiel’s arrival. The sound is followed by a chair being dragged near the bed, and ruffling clothes as the angel sits. Dean is lying in bed in the dark, the smell of old sheets and moth balls in his nose, as familiar as the smell of blood. The angel tunes into the man’s breathing, monitoring the quickly slowing, relaxed pace with a small unseen smile on his face. It is too dark for either of them to see, but when a car drives by, flooding the room with light for a second or two, their eyes are always locked. 

Their voices are pitched low as to not wake Sam, and like this they talk until Dean falls asleep mid-sentence. Castiel always says _Goodnight, Dean_ before taking off. He has nowhere to go, but he’s gotten the idea that sitting and watching your friend sleep through the night is not a widely accepted hobby. It’s unfortunate, he thinks, as Dean reminds him why he’s glad he’s cut off from Heaven, reminds him that there’s blood on his hands but that he can be forgiven regardless. It gives him hope that they’ll forgive him up there, too. He is unsurprised when he understands that these nights are beneficial to him as well, that when Dean begins asking questions, he unloads things that had been weighting on him for a while, and it feels good. It feels good because Dean listens, stripped of his walls in the dark. He listens and asks with genuine interest and curiosity, and it has been a long time since anyone listened to Castiel this way.

“Hey, how do you manage to always find us, no matter where we are? I know it’s your angel mojo crap, but how does it work?” Dean asks one night, looking over his shoulder when Sam rolls over, making sure he’s still asleep. Castiel thinks Sam isn’t stupid and knows already, but he doesn’t want to burst Dean’s bubble, out of fear that he would put a stop to this. Instead, he thinks carefully about his answer.

“I follow the blood,” he says after a minute, feeling the air shift as his heightened senses catch the new tenseness in Dean’s body. He understands why that would be a difficult thing to hear, and he thinks maybe he should express himself differently.

“I look for places where the innocent are dying, or places where a lot of blood has been spilled in a short amount of time. Most likely, you two are already there.”

“So you track us to some terrified little roadside town and then just find our exact location how, exactly? Some kind of hunter radar?” There’s a huff of breath, almost a scoff, but Castiel knows he is not annoyed. Just thinking about the blood on their path.

“No. I just look everywhere at once,” Castiel answers, which is partially the truth. That was once the way he found them, by searching everywhere at once. But he soon found that if he listened, really listened with his angel ears rather than his vessel’s, he could hear Dean. Tuning his ears to a human body like this is usually a cacophony of sounds; blood rushing all over, nerves sparking reactions, muscles shifting, bones creaking, organs breathing and dissolving and absorbing and ejecting. It’s hard to pinpoint anything specific. 

But when it comes to Dean, his heart is as loud as a drum. His heart is the biggest part of him and Castiel can hear it right away, recognize the way it pumps. He listens to it now, hearing it as if underwater, beating underneath inches of flesh and skin and muscle. Dean’s soul is wrapped around it like a barrier, heart and soul twisted and entwined. He knows he must keep all this to himself, as it’s the kind of thing that Dean might feel uncomfortable about. Actually, he is sure Dean would be uncomfortable knowing Castiel is able to track him to his heartbeat, and he doesn’t want to be the cause of that in times like these.

Eventually Dean drifts to sleep. Castiel stands above him, thinking that he deserves that special place Up There reserved for him more than anyone he’s ever met. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” he whispers as he reaches to touch his forehead with his fingertips, transferring a dream that would provide his friend with a peaceful, restful sleep.

And in a flutter, he’s gone, taking with him the sound of Dean’s heart beating in his ears. 


End file.
